Fill me with your p o i s o n
by Cry4theDevil
Summary: After one of Karofsky's more brutal attacks Kurt is left wondering whether he can forgive the jock or not. Non-con rape Kurt/Dave Kurtofsky


A normal day in Kurt Hummel's life was walking the crowded halls of William Mckinley High School, having the throngs of students shift and morph to allow him passage not because he was popular but because of an oncoming slushy.

Of course that had seemed normal, the sensation of cold, flavoured ice running down his face, staining his expensive Alexander McQueen outfits. Now it was different.

The norm wasn't stains and cold anymore.

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He groaned as Dave Karofsky backed him into the half lockers of the football change room, blue eyes wide but unafraid. As his back pressed to the metal, hands descended and pressed against him, crawling down to his waist, grasping his slender hips. Karofsky towered over him, trapped him and gave no room for escape. There never was. There was only the dull realization that it was happening again.

He tried to ignore the touches, the smell of sweat and need pouring off the other as fingers curled into his hair, yanking his head back. The feel of sticky lips against his exposed skin making him shudder and convulse with disgust.

"You like this, faggot," Karofsky would chant, repeating that word, that one word that hurt him so much. _Faggot_.

It would echo within Kurt's mind as the assault continued, a constant reminder of what went on when no one was around. The only witness to these sessions being left over football gear sitting on the benches, quietly glimpsing what no one else was allowed to see; the spread of Kurt's legs as Karofsky positioned them to his liking, the curve of a violated innocence, drops of crimson rain on the floor, a cascading river of tears rolling down the slopes of Kurt's cheeks.

And all the while the word faggot haunting the scene. That and a quote held dear: "Nobody pushes the Hummel's around."

A lie.

Metal pressing against naked skin, sandwiched between a twisted warmth and freezing cold. Push into the cold and be bruised, press back into the warmth and betray pride. Kurt sniffles, hicups, cries out and slumps. Waiting for it to end.

It does, eventually, end in a high crescendo of Karofsky's pleasured howls and Kurt's broken screams. Nobody hears. Nobody ever does.

Set back down on wobbling legs the shattered tries to pick up the pieces. He searches through a river of red, fishing out article by article and then without any sense to notice his clothes are stained Kurt pulls them on, smearing blood against his pale, almost translucent, skin.

Shivering violently, lifeless blue eyes glance up. Karofsky is watching, waiting, taking pity on his prey, surveying the damage, the marks that he left on the shaking figure before him. Kurt takes no further notice of him, instead the soprano has gone back to stumbling around, now trying to pull on a lost boot.

He can't do it and the shoe falls. Kurt looks at the boot before turning and making his way toward the door. Smeared with blood, clothes in disarray and clearly weak Karofsky knows Kurt will undoubtably fall or be seen.

It doesn't usually happen like this. This isn't normal, the way Karofsky pulls Kurt away from the door, leads him to the showers and helps him wash the blood away, temporarily ridding the Hummel of the disgrace he dealt out. It isn't normal the way he whispers quiet sorries and begs to be forgiven as he dries the shaking body beneath the towel, or how he dresses Kurt in a pair of McKinley track pants and hoodie.

Kurt doesn't speak throughout the whole thing. He is spent, his voice butchered from screaming, from begging. He doesn't know why he thought pleading might make a difference. It never did before. And now the irony is that Karofsky, his tormentor, his rapist, his fear is begging for forgiveness.

A few tears form and slide from the corners of his eyes. Can he forgive Karofsky?

One glance at the jocks face and Kurt knows the answer...

_end_

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reviews?


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